


My Heart Stood Still

by poisonivory



Category: Daredevil (TV), The Defenders (Marvel TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Jazz Age, M/M, Speakeasies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-22
Updated: 2017-08-22
Packaged: 2018-12-18 12:31:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,337
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11874498
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/poisonivory/pseuds/poisonivory
Summary: Matt couldn’t see any of the singers at Alexandra’s, but he fancied he could get a sense of what they looked like from the way they sang. In fact, from his place at the piano just below them, he figured he might know them better while they were singing than anyone else did.





	My Heart Stood Still

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by a brief moment in Defenders, but no actual spoilers. I'd be lying if I said this didn't owe something to [werelibrarian's Jazz Age AU](http://werelibrarian.tumblr.com/post/142108045616/werelibrarian-well-im-about-56-drunk-now).
> 
> [The song Foggy sings is by Rodgers and Hart](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VlrjmgFKszU), and if I can still sneak a prompt in under the wire, this fills the "AU: historical" square on my Daredevil Bingo card.

Matt couldn’t see any of the singers at Alexandra’s, but he fancied he could get a sense of what they looked like from the way they sang. In fact, from his place at the piano just below them, he figured he might know them better while they were singing than anyone else did.

Malcolm Ducasse had had training somewhere - it told in his consonants - but he knew enough to soften that clipped edge with warmth, and the hint of a sob in his voice wasn’t a put-on. Had to be a trim and together-looking fella, then, with a ready smile and eyes that had known tragedy.

Colleen Wing was a sparkler, with laughter in her high notes and total willingness to slug a guy getting fresh with her at the bar after her set. She was short, Matt knew, and he guessed she was quick to smile. She was a flickering candle to him, all fire and light.

Miss Trish - well now, that was cheating. Matt could still remember her in the flickers fifteen years back, when he could see. Gray ringlets that the fan magazines said were really red, and eyes as big as anything. But they’d both been kids then, and Miss Walker sang like a woman now, defiant and strong. Anyone who came into Alexandra’s looking for a thrill with Li’l Patsy Walker would have another think coming before he knew it.

Matt played for them all - fast songs, slow ones, bluesy ones with lots of pain. He played when no one was singing, but the music had to keep going because it made folks want to drink. He played after the lights had done down and the chairs had gone up, because it kept the sounds of the city at bay.

He knew the others in the speakeasy, too: Luke at the door, an impassable wall with a steady voice and a steadier heart. Jones, who called herself a private dick but spent too much time slumped over the bar for Matt to think she ever solved any cases. Rand, the billionaire who came once a week to drink lemonade and moon over Colleen.

He had to know them all. There was something unsavory in the air at Alexandra’s. Not the drinking - Matt had been raised Catholic, he didn’t care about a little tippling - but what the drinking _paid_ for. People bought and sold. Mysterious construction projects. Money changing hands in back alleys and deserted parks.

Alexandra didn’t know it yet, but someday her talented, penniless, _helpless_ blind piano player was going to bring her whole operation crashing down around her. But to do that, Matt needed to keep tabs on everyone who sauntered in and out of her establishment.

So he paid attention when the door opened one late afternoon, well before business got underway, and a strange heartbeat walked in. Not that he made it _look_ like he was paying attention, of course.

“We’re closed,” he called out, not bothering to turn away from the piano, where he was picking out an idle tune to pass the time.

“I’m not here for a drink.” Young, male, nervous. “I’m here about the job?”

“Talk to Josie if you want to sling whiskey.”

“No, the, uh. The singing job?”

Matt sat up and turned around. “What singing job?” Their roster was full.

“It’s right here in the paper, look - ” The voice came closer. Matt could hear the rustle of paper and the surprised bump of the man’s heart when he took in Matt’s glasses and the cane resting against the piano. “Oh. Oh gosh, I’m sorry.”

“Why? You didn’t do it,” Matt said, tapping his glasses. “Listen, you want a job here, you gotta talk to Bakuto. He books all of Miss Alexandra’s talent.”

“Yeah, I know,” the man said. He was about Matt’s height, a little heavyset but light on his feet, with a cheap suit and hair that wanted cutting - Matt could hear it brushing his collar when he moved his head. Nothing special. “But they always say, you want a gig somewhere, get in good with the piano player first. Except I already blew it with the piano player, thanks to my big mouth. Would you believe me if I said I went momentarily stupid on account of a pretty face?”

Matt laughed. “There’s no face in here but mine.”

“That’s what I said.”

Matt reconsidered. Maybe the fast heartbeat and burning cheeks he was picking up from this Johnny weren’t just from audition nerves, or even first-time-in-a-speakeasy jitters. “What’s your name?” he asked.

“Franklin Nelson, but the fellas all call me Foggy,” the man said, waving the hat he held in his hand in a tipping gesture.

Matt’s eyebrows went up. This boy had some showbiz in him, at least. “Can you sing?”

“I expect that’ll be up to this Bakuto gent. And to you.”

“All right, Foggy.” Matt played a quick trill. “Hop up on that microphone and let’s see if you can get in good with the piano player.”

“Hot dog!” Foggy scrambled for the stage, dropping his hat and newspaper clipping in the process.

Matt ducked his head to hide his smile. Either this boy was pure corn, or he was playing the part to the hilt. Whichever it was, it was fun to listen to. “What’ll it be?”

Foggy paused. “You know, I came in here all ready with ‘Blue Skies,’ but...do you know ‘My Heart Stood Still?’”

“I know everything.”

“If that’s true, I’m in trouble,” Foggy said. “Ready when you are, Mr…?”

“It’s Murdock,” Matt said, lifting his fingers to the keys. “Matt Murdock.” And he began to play.

And Foggy sang.

_“I took one look at you...that’s all I meant to do...and then my heart stood still…”_

The sound flowed down on Matt from the stage, clear as crystal and sweet as vermouth. Foggy’s mouth shaped the words so perfectly Matt could practically see his lips move. Something like tears sprang up behind his eyes.

He kept playing mechanically, hands moving over the familiar patterns, utterly distracted.

_“Though not a single word was spoken, I could tell you knew...that unfelt clasp of hands told me so well you knew…”_

The high notes sent shivers up Matt’s spine. The low ones found a home deep in the pit of his belly. He couldn’t have stopped playing if he tried.

_“I never lived at all until the thrill...of that moment when my heart stood still.”_

The last notes hung in the air as Matt lifted his trembling fingers from the keys. He wet his lips.

“Well,” he said finally, and noted how husky his voice sounded. “I can’t make you any promises, but if a word from me will help you with Bakuto, I’ll give him the dictionary.”

“Gee, thanks!” Foggy said, bounding down from the stage and collecting his scattered belongings. “That’s swell of you, Mr. Murdock, real swell.”

“Call me Matt,” Matt said before he could stop himself, and held out a hand.

Foggy clasped it in both of his. His hands were broad and warm. Calluses on the palms and not the knuckles - he worked with his hands, but he wasn’t a fighter. His pulse beat fast but steady against Matt’s.

“Matt, then. I sure hope we get to work together,” he said. Now that Matt was listening, he could hear it in Foggy’s speaking voice, too - the music. How could he have thought Foggy was nothing special?

He should keep Foggy far away from here. Alexandra’s was no place for a sweet kid like him, no matter how much Matt wanted to hear him night after night. Whenever what was building up here came to a head, everyone on the spot would be in trouble, and that voice was too pure to handle trouble well.

But Matt had never been any damn good at doing what he should.

“Me too,” he said, and smiled. Foggy’s heart beat faster.

Brother, he was in for it now.


End file.
